


might as well be walking on the sun

by infiniteviking



Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteviking/pseuds/infiniteviking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point. Some just haven’t found it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	might as well be walking on the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for an old, old, old ficlet meme which I am still way too far behind on. It’s for remorsebot, whose Rinzler is a thing of ~~terror~~ ~~beauty~~ amazingness, and it references my central conceit from _loop while answer_ , because I find it a handy bit of headcanon for situations like this.

The little program didn’t change much. He was one of the incorrigibles, a minor crowd favorite, frequently advancing to the final round, as if he enjoyed being derezzed over and over again. He fought with enthusiasm and ingenuity, tender toward lesser opponents but giving his all against more powerful ones.

He played the game. Rinzler liked that. It was his offtime behavior that needed work.

The lift doors opened silently, the better to catch inmates whispering, and the enforcer stalked along the aisle, lazily searching for the right cell. He visited fairly often, just to stand outside the forcefield for a while, never saying a word. Waiting for the break, he told himself, because everyone broke eventually. This one ~~didn’t~~ hadn’t; this one ~~wouldn’t~~ was stubborn. This one was just going to take a little longer.

The program’s behavioral range was ~~comfortably~~ ~~maddeningly~~ predictable by now. He’d be asleep, or bouncing his disc off the forcefield, or rocking back and whistling, or perhaps tense and quiet, a satisfactory but boring alternative to his aggravating attempts to make conversation. (“Been a while. Got held up in the Arena?” “Still nothing to say? Ooo-kay then.” “Hey, when are we gonna bust out of here, Tron?” “That noise you make. You should get it looked at.” “I bet you _can_ talk. You just don’t want to. Don’t worry about it. I’m not going anywhere.”) Occasionally the conscript tried to goad Rinzler into talking back. Often he perked right up, as if he’d _missed_ him. Sometimes he just cracked an eye open and then rolled over and dozed off again.

Sometimes Rinzler wanted to _shake_ him. But this, too, was a game, and as long as he didn’t react, he was still winning.

The program was on the floor this time, sitting with his back to the sleeping pallet and tossing his disc back and forth from hand to hand. This would be one of the tense nights, then. The program’s eyes flicked up, catching the faint movement as Rinzler stopped outside his cell, disc never missing a beat.

Going by past behavior, the program should have turned away quickly. This time, he didn’t. This time, he kept looking. Most programs found it difficult to make eye contact through the helmet, but the little program came very near to managing it, staring until even Rinzler had to admit himself ~~disturbed~~ confused.

The violence in the level stare was mesmerizing.

Odd. There hadn’t been any unusual activity lately, except an influx of new prisoners that had superseded the higher-level matches while the chaff was weeded out — could that account for a change like this? They hadn’t faced off for a while, come to think of it. Maybe solitude was the key here.... not that Rinzler was going to suggest that to anyone. It only counted if it happened on its own.

Perhaps it would happen tonight.

The disc stopped in the program’s hand. A muscle twitched in his face. He was rigid, locked up with too many emotions to categorize, and there wasn’t the sense that he was looking so much as straining to see through something that was blinding him. Rinzler _knew_ that feeling. It leaped between them like a spark; for a moment he almost felt that they understood one another. Maybe the little program would channel it — maybe it would _cascade_.

The forcefield’s heat nipped at Rinzler’s external sensors. Despite himself, he leaned closer....

..and knew a sharp ~~pang~~ disappointment when the program let out a rasping breath, clenched his teeth, and deliberately turned away, back bowed over the knot inside him. “‘s okay,” the ~~familiar~~ low voice muttered, the disc’s edge clinking against the floor. “‘m not mad at _you_.”

(As if that was supposed to tell him anything at all.)

The next time they met, the little program died with his usual wry smirk as the crowd screamed below. Rinzler let the sound wash over him, watching the blue-lit disc bounce away from the shattering form, and wondered how long it would take for that dark streak to show up again.

He wouldn’t miss it for the world.  
___


End file.
